


Just

by T_Thornton



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Ambiguous Fandom, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Angst and Romance, Awkward Tension, Feminist Themes, Fluff and Smut, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-01-18 08:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12384309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/T_Thornton/pseuds/T_Thornton
Summary: John and Margaret's wedded bliss; or, John and Margaret's strife and suffering. An often overly-dramatic, sometimes smutty account of the Thornton marriage. Influenced by both Gaskell and BBC.





	1. Yet Angels Brought You to Me

Author's note: This pulls from both the BBC adaptation and the original by Elizabeth Gaskell, though I'll never do her justice. We start after the train station, on the way back to Milton.

 

Chapter One: Yet Angels Brought You to Me

* * *

Outside the train compartment, shadows of trees danced past and the horizon darkened to deep gray-blue; the engine churned ahead of them, jostling the cars as it pulled them on towards Milton; and Margaret Hale was floating. She did not hear the engine pulse. She did not feel the car sway, or even the seat beneath her. John Thornton's left arm held her shoulders and his right hand rested in Margaret's lap, his thumb lazily skating along the curve of her wrist. She could feel the warmth of his closeness, and every so often the wind of his breath, faint against her ear or the back of her neck. The cabin lamps had been lit, and staring at the window she could see his reflection behind hers, floating with her, watching her with curious, kind eyes. She had seen them together like this in her most precious dreams, but even in dreams, she did not imagine his countenance to be so tender.

"Tell me what you're thinking," John said, his voice a pleasing hum, thick and sweet in a way that tightened her chest. Margaret turned and lifted her head to gaze at John's face, and was surprised to realize its closeness. She had to tilt her head back to be able to see him well, and even then she felt she could not hold the blue of his gaze without feeling overcome-so she looked at his nose, his chin, his jaw. Pieces of a picture that made her want to weep. In truth, she was not thinking on any one thought-her psyche was all tumbling, delighted abstractions, a basket of fruit spilt over, sweetness stretching out in every direction.

"I fear my thoughts are so scattered I would have difficulties grasping only one," Margaret said, meeting his eyes only briefly again.

His face was alight, his cheeks high, forehead crease-less. He bowed his head forward as if to kiss her, the tip of his long, fine nose whispering past hers, his eyes drooping shut. John's stubbled cheek brushed against hers as a cat might nuzzle, and he kissed her cheek before pulling back to say quietly, "Then, pray, tell me as many secrets as you will."

Margaret was unnerved. She feared nothing risked ruining this moment more than her speaking, but presently she couldn't imagine denying John Thornton anything (a thought which scared and delighted her more).

"I suppose ... I am thinking of Mr. Bell, for one."

"Mr. Bell?" John's head moved back, eyebrows pulled together in question, his head tilting as his smile shown down at her. She wondered if he'd laugh.

"Yes," Margaret spoke, trying to measure out her response. "Mr. Bell was full of mischief, and he seemed to know me too well. I wonder-I wonder if he hadn't anticipated this, all the while. And I wonder at the gift he has given." She looked down, squeezed his fingers, but refrained from her compulsion to kiss each of his knuckles.

"I wonder at the gift  _you_  have given  _me_ ," was his sweet reply, and when she met the sea of his gaze her chest seemed to seize and begin a steady vibration all at once. A swell of tears smeared her vision, and John moved his hand to cradle her cheek. She leaned into his palm. She could not look at him.

"John ... these past months while I've been so far from Milton, I've never stopped thinking-" She stopped. Shuddered against his open hand. The shake of his head was so slight she wondered if she imagined it.

"Margaret?"

"-when I left Milton, there I left all my happiness. A place where I might finally find purpose in a life thus far adrift. It wasn't until I met you that I saw what purpose, what drive, ones' life could have. You live with such integrity and meaning. Since I left, I've found rather little meaning in anything. In London, I am hollow ... without ... oh,  _God_  ... "

" _Margaret_."

Then her hands made to cover her face briefly, but,  _oh_ , she did not want to hide from him, and so she took his hand from her face and pulled it close to her chest, cradling it, studying his long fingers in the lantern light, tears spilling out. She kept her head down-she knew that if she looked up into the blue now, she would shatter.  _I cannot. I cannot._

Her voice quivered. "I have not prayed for this because I knew myself undeserving. I have caused you such strife, while you ... you have saved me from ruin. I have offended you at every possible turn, and after all this you meet me with grace. Even after Outwood Station. After you must have thought-but you must know, there has never been anyone else!-but I dared not pray. Only hoped. And I have been so very afraid, these months, so full of dread that you might never know how deeply and singularly I am in love with you, and have been since before I knew what love was."

And then,  _oh_ , he was kissing her-sweetly, but not so gently as on the platform where they first kissed.

The way she loved him felt fierce in its newness and suddenly, she found her emotions churning quite desperately, and  _who was this_? The hum of her body when he was near was familiar enough, but this indulgence in it was strange and frightening and so good and she felt a stranger to herself. If she had searched inside herself, she wouldn't have found the Margaret Hale who would turn her face at such notions. That Margaret had succumbed. Now here was Margaret Hale, who had kissed and been kissed. Margaret Hale, whose heart and hands and lips craved another so wholly. So quickly. So furiously.

She found her arms wrapping around his neck, clinging to him as she had once done when she was frightened for him. As she did, John's arms wrapped around her shoulder and her waist, pulling her closer, his head tilting to press his mouth more firmly against hers, his fingers stroking just beneath her shoulder blades, and when he sighed into her kiss she couldn't keep from moaning gently.

Her moan broke a spell. John pulled back slightly, his breath coming quick, and he leaned his forehead against Margaret's. Long moments passed where all Margaret could hear was his breath and the thudding of her heart. She reveled in the swelling of her lips, her mouth tasting of his. Her fingers stilled themselves on the back of his neck.

"Say that you'll marry me, Margaret. Tell me you will be by my side, always. I cannot wait another minute to be certain. It's too painful."

Drawing in a breath, Margaret tilted up her head, looked into the blue, and her soul burst into a thousand fires that fizzled and haloed about her.

"I will marry you, John Thornton, and then be by your side, always."

John could have wept for his happiness, and very nearly did, as he peppered Margaret's face with gentle, frantic kisses-he couldn't keep back bursts of desperate, shaking laughter. After some moments of his kissing her tears this way, she began to laugh in kind, and he held her face in his hands, full of delight, chest heaving, voice trembling.

"I will not let you down, Margaret, Love, I swear to you. My life's work will be to bring you joy."

"And my life's work will be the same," Margaret smiled.

"When shall we wed? I'm desperate to never be parted again," John sighed, leaning in for a kiss, and another, happily unable to stop. Now this face was his to kiss, he couldn't imagine ever wanting to cease, ever wanting to pull away from her pale, smooth skin, the halo of a fragrance like jasmine, her soft, pink lips, the delicate skin of her eyelids. He placed a kiss at the corner of each eye as Margaret took his hands in hers, biting her lip.

"Before we set a date, you should talk to your mother, and I to Aunt Shaw. Only, I'm not certain I want to imagine their responses just yet." She rolled her eyes gently.

"Don't worry," said John with unsurprising confidence as he pulled the little yellow rose from his breast pocket and placed it gently behind Margaret's ear, which brought forth a delicious blush. He wanted to draw the color out with a kiss. "My mother wants every happiness for me, as I'm sure your Aunt does for you-and so they will understand." He brought her hands to his mouth and pressed his lips to the back of each. He could not stop. Today he had hope. He hadn't felt it in too long.

"Yes, I'm sure you're right," Margaret giggled-something she would have scoffed at Edith for doing, once upon a time-and he so enjoyed the sound that he turned her hands over to kiss her palms in hope of drawing out more, but instead she sighed deeply, and raising his eyes to her, he saw her expression darken pleasantly. Her countenance pushed against the little restraint he had mustered, and he closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled, and squeezed her soft hands.  _My dearest, only love._

"I regret that I cannot ask your father for your hand", John started, watching a wistful glaze come to Margaret's eyes. "I like to think he would have said yes. In his absence, I feel I should write a letter to your brother, to ask for his blessing."

He could just make out the widening of her eyes, the tremor at the corners of her mouth. "You know about Fredrick?" He couldn't tell if she was panicked or relieved, and he stroked her hands to encourage her.

"Higgins told me-and if I'm right, Mr. Bell might have tried to tell me before he left. I know now it was him at the train station, the night I saw you. And I-"

"No," Margaret pleaded-

"-Love, I am sorry for my jealousy. It caused you only pain. But to the future-I should write to your brother, and make my intentions known. What do you think?"

"I think," Margaret replied, "that you are a good man, and Fred will be pleased to receive a letter from you and know I am so loved. He hates that he is not able to be here, for he feels it his responsibility to care for me. He will be happy to know that I am not alone."

"No. Not alone."

The train began to slow, and for the first time since she entered the train car, John looked past her and out the window. Everything that wasn't Margaret seemed so dulled. "Back in Milton," he breathed, and squeezed her hand again. He loved it and he dreaded it. He was happy to bring her home, and he was not ready for the journey to end.

"I will take up a room at The Bishop tonight," said Margaret decisively. "That is not so far from Marlborough Mills. In the morning I will write to Aunt Shaw, and to Fred as well."

"You will not come home with me?" John started, and quickly he added, "We have guest rooms made, and I could stay in my office-"

"No, of course not," replied Margaret, and of  _course_  she wouldn't dare to stay at Marlborough House tonight. She was a Lady, and he was foolish not to think more clearly on the matter. He nodded as she continued. "It would not be proper, and I could not do that to your mother. I would not wish to make her feel so ill at ease in her own home."

" _Your_  home," John was quick to correct her. "Mother and I are tenants in  _your home_."

"Nonsense. My name is on the deed, but I have not made it the home that it is. We will be married, and then we will live together happily, all of us. But I do not wish to pull the rug from underneath Mrs. Thornton. It will be hard enough for her to accept me as a daughter-oh, no, John, I am certain she will-but we must let her adjust."

John found himself so smitten by the kindness in Margaret's face that he could hardly bear it, and as the train crawled into the station he leaned in once more for a sweet, lingering kiss. The way her lips moulded to his, the gentle parting of them, the infinite softness, threatened to undo him. This divinity would drive him mad. This woman.

"Come," Margaret whispered, "let's away."

* * *

The coach ride to The Bishop was brief, and for their parts John and Margaret both were remarkably restrained. They rode in mostly-contented silence, sitting across from one another in the cabin as it carried them toward the center of town, just across from Milton Cathedral. When John helped her down the coach step, she delighted in the chance to hold his hand again, if only briefly.

After her bag had been taken inside, they stood on the steps of the hotel entrance, their bodies just closer than perhaps they should have been, Margaret peering up at him with wide, happy eyes.

His chest was thrumming. "Are you sure you won't join us for dinner tonight? I'm sure it would be no trouble."

Margaret cast her eyes down, smoothing her skirts. "I'm not so sure of that. I should not intrude tonight. Besides, I am tired from travel, and fear I wouldn't be engaging company. I must sleep."

On the contrary, John thought as he marveled at her, no thought seemed so pleasing right now as her sleepy company. Now in his mind she was curled up in her bed, a smile playing on her lips as she slept.

Now in his mind she was stretched out on a familiar duvet, wrists meeting in a cross above her head, dark-eyed, heavy lidded, lips parted—perhaps  _not_  sleeping—

Margaret looked at him as if she couldn't quite make him out, but as he watched her brow lift he felt certain she knew that the fade of his smile wasn't due to unhappiness. His chest heaved a stilted sigh as he looked down at her, unspeaking, brows furrowed, and he splayed and stretched his fingers at his sides. He barely kept from groaning her name.

"When may I call on you tomorrow?", he asked, and she inclined her head gently.

"As soon as you will," said she. "I have only to post some letters, and visit the dressmaker-I have brought little with me-and I have no other engagements. We should go over the papers Henry prepared for me. I know you will be eager to reopen the mill."

_That's right_ , John remembered.  _There's a mill._

"I will call at noon, then, if you'll join me for lunch."

"Indeed, I'd be delighted," she smiled, lifting her eyes to him. Then they stood in silence a moment more, while John studied the dimpled corners of her mouth with glad fascination and desire-but he knew he could not kiss her soft face here, so he bent forward and took her hand, kissing it and pressing his nose into her wrist, just so, just for a moment, with his forehead almost touching her arm.

If he could, he would drop to his knees and press his face into her hands, kiss her palm and wrists.

If he could, he would wrap his arms about her waist, lift her up, bury his head in her bosom, clutch her to himself, draw in her radiant warmth, trail kisses up her neck to the spot just below the wisping curls behind her ears …

If he could-

-but now, he reminded himself, _there's no if._   _Now, there's only when_. Now he didn't wonder, nor suffer in vain. Where once there was crushing emptiness, now there was only her, and the promise of her. When she would become his wife, and-

_When ..._

It was with the greatest reluctance that he raised himself back up, and seeing her flush he wondered with amusement (and too little guilt) if he had embarrassed her, though there were few but footmen about the entrance to the hotel. Margaret clasped her hands back together, pursing her lips in that maddening way.

"Goodnight, Miss Hale."

"Goodnight, Mr. Thornton."

* * *

* * *

 


	2. 2. That Has Such a Man in It

Chapter 2: That Has Such a Man in It

* * *

 

_Dearest Aunt Shaw and Edith,_

_How shocked you must be at me, and perhaps angry at me_ — _but I hope this letter will sufficiently explain what occurred today, and set your mind at ease about my decision._

_First, I am sorry to have parted with Henry so suddenly at Northampton Station. Please know that it has never been my intention to cause Henry any discomfort or unhappiness-he has been a good friend to me. I know you wanted me to feel something more for him than I do, and I am saddened for your disappointment, but I could not change my mind. I simply do not love him._

_I think you will both understand when I tell you that these past months in London have been a trial for me. How lucky I have been to rely upon you, my dear aunt and cousin, in these days of unhappiness. You have brought me as much joy as anyone could in London! Yet the longer I have stayed there, the more discontented I have become. Even my visit to Helstone with Mr. Bell could not quell the restlessness in my heart, difficult as that is to believe. I now realise that I have restless for a different life._

_Dear family_ — _Mr. Thornton has asked for my hand in marriage, and I have agreed._

_It is my folly that I am sure you have not known the depth of my affection for him, but please know that my feelings are as long as they are certain. There could never be someone so joyous as I am at this moment. I have found my happiness here in Milton, and here I shall make a home. I know it is not what you would want for me, but it is what I want, and that will have to be enough for you._

_If it does not trouble you, please have Dixon come and bring my trunk. I have precious little in my travel bag, and buying a temporary wardrobe seems wasteful._

_I have many matters to attend here in Milton, but I hope to visit London soon, if I'm still welcome. If I am not, you need only send word, and I will understand._

_Lovingly yours,_

_Margaret_

* * *

"What do you mean, she's  _saved us_?"

In the sitting room, John clasped one hand over his other wrist and Hannah Thornton stiffened, narrowing her eyes. He was beside her on the settee with his elbows on his knees, leaning toward her and speaking quietly enough that the maid working at the fireplace wouldn't hear.

"Miss Hale intends to invest in the reopening of the mill. What she is offering is more than enough to restore it fully. We might be able to begin production in only a week's time." When she saw his hopeful smile her chest tightened.

"At what cost to us?" Hannah demanded. "What does she want?"

For a moment John seemed to bristle at her tone, his jaw working the way she knew it did when he tried to remain composed, but then his features softened and he gave a small, thin-lipped smile, eyebrows raised gently. "At a much better cost than any bank could offer—not that they would want to, anyway. Mother, Margaret-"

" _Margaret_?" she scoffed. "Too familiar a term for a business partner, John."

John took his mother's hand in his own two, and looked at her, unspeaking for a moment. His expression was curious to her, and betrayed something she hadn't seen in his eyes since he was a boy. She stilled instantly, her features falling. She knew this face.

"Leave us, Jane," Hannah called out, and mother and son waited as Jane hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind her. In agonizing silence, Hannah sat frozen watching her son.

"Mother," he said, and he looked down at their hands, his mouth drawing up at the corners. "Margaret has agreed to marry me."

Hannah shrugged forward, and her breath rushed out of her. She had prayed this was over.

And yet ... she had seen the look in Miss Hale's eyes when she admitted not to have truly known John. She knew that face as well.

"And—what of the man at the train station?" Hannah asked. Her desperation was showing. "What of that impropriety?" She thought that might give John a start, but he just shook his head.

"Her brother, who lives in Spain, and had come to say goodbye to Mrs. Hale."

"Of whom we've never heard mention?"

"Yes," said John.

"Who had to leave in secret, in the dead of night?"

"Yes, he did. And I'll not explain further without Margaret's permission, but I know it to be true."

Hannah turned her head towards the fire, blinking the sting from her eyes. This was it, she knew. And she could do nothing about it.

Too many times lately she had looked upon his face and wondered if he might never be happy. She worried he was cursed; he'd never break from the chains of his father's death. While she had accepted that burden for herself long ago, she could not bear it for her dear John. After a life so full of hardship and heartbreak, to see him so happy again, and so vulnerable—she found herself terrified that he might be broken yet again, and she wasn't sure she could face it.

"Mother, whatever has happened in the past, she loves me. I do not know why, but she does."

At this, she turned back to him with a deep breath, putting a hand to his cheek. "It isn't difficult to see why, Son," she murmured, and let herself soften. "Do you know, I haven't seen you this happy since before your father died, God rest his soul. I hope Miss Hale will always make you this happy."

"I know she will."

"Then I am happy for you."

Beaming, he leaned in to kiss her. "Thank you, mother."

She stifled tears, squaring her shoulders and straightening her posture. "So," Hannah said, picking up her needlework, "when is all this happening, then? I suppose we'll have to go down to London for a society wedding. Your sister will be pleased."

"That, I don't know," John said, "but it doesn't matter. I will marry her anywhere."

Hannah didn't wonder at that; he'd been helpless a long while. Now she faced her own helplessness as well—that is, the helplessness all mothers must encounter one day. Her time in his sunlight was finished, and she hoped Miss Hale deserved the sun.

* * *

_She was anchored to him, his one hand splayed out against the small of her back, the other hand curved over her shoulder blade, fingertips gripping. She could feel the heat of his palms, and she willed the fabric to dissolve beneath his touch._

" _Say that you'll marry me, Margaret."_

_His head nodded forward, lips more insistent now, breath heavy, and she could feel something like a growl vibrating out of his chest, the timbre tugging quick at something new inside her. She arched into him and dropped her head back._

" _Say that you'll marry me, Margaret."_

_She could feel_

"That's a fine flower, Miss."

"I'm sorry?" Margaret gasped, remembering herself, and then craned her head to look behind her. She'd quite forgotten the maid standing with her in the hotel suite's bedchamber, fastidiously loosening Margaret's corset laces as she stood, dazed, in front of the full-length mirror.

"The yellow rose in your hair, Miss," the maid replied as she worked at the garment. She had a sweet, bright smile that gave away her amusement. "Those don't grow 'round here, do they?"

Margaret looked back toward the mirror, bringing her hand up to where the buttery little bloom peaked out from behind her ear, and flushed to think of John's fingers tucking it there. "No, indeed," she smiled. "They grow in Hampshire."

She would wear these roses in her hair when she was a girl, weaving them into long grass to form a sloppy crown. She had not fancied wearing roses in her hair since she went to live with Aunt Shaw and Edith; she thought it an adornment she'd long outgrown, and felt foolish when Edith would make her wear them. She was surprised to feel so pleased with the look of herself in the mirror now.

"Well, how lovely it is!" smiled the maid as she loosened and unhooked Margaret's corset. Margaret pulled a deep breath, stretching her torso side-to-side as the maid helped her slip her arms into her peignoir. Then she sat at the vanity, took the rose between two fingers, and spun the little flower in her hand.

" _Say that you'll marry me, Margaret."_

_His hands-_

Margaret blinked, felt her skin flood with color, and cleared her throat as if to chastise herself.

"Do you think those letters will make the night train?", she asked, her voice just faster than it should be. A knot had formed high in her stomach.

"Aye, Miss, with plenty of time. Anything else I can do before I bring up your tea?"

"No, thank you—as a matter of fact, I don't think I'll take tea after all."

Then Margaret was alone— _alone with my imprudent mind_ , she thought as she took out her pins and shook her fingers against her scalp to help her hair down.  _Wouldn't Edith be delighted to see me charmed like a silly little girl?_

Brushing her hair out, she appraised herself in the vanity. She looked ... the same. Her lips, her cheek, the corners of her eyes—shouldn't they look different, after being kissed so? Shouldn't they be branded by a blush, or alight like stars? They still felt warm to her. She thought of the soft scrape of his cheek against hers and a shiver coursed through her, and again, she heard his fervent request.

"Oh, brave new world," she whispered to herself, full of both delight and terror. It  _was_  a new world, and its language was foreign.

In her mind, offering John the money had been a logical decision. Saving the mill and the jobs of all its workers, and restoring the name and position of Mr. Thornton, as honorable a man as Milton had ever seen, was without question the right thing to do. Milton needed John Thornton, and John Thornton deserved the mill he had worked so hard for. Clearly she also hoped that his opinion of her might be improved, though she tried her best to harbor no expectations ... and she dreamed that one day he might feel again what he once felt. But  _marriage_ —

—marriage was not what she expected, so soon at least.

She loved him, though she felt she was still discerning the meaning of the word. She knew that each day parted from him seemed more intolerable than the last. She knew that she wouldn't marry anyone else ... yet she hadn't really considered the natural consequence of her desire to be with him.  _This is what people do_ , she thought,  _when they're in love._

She was not opposed to it in any sense. No, she was certain she liked the idea. She just did not know what to make of it.

Her parents had loved each other, but if Margaret was going to marry, it could not be a marriage like theirs, with no honesty, nor confidence. Edith and the Captain certainly loved one another, but their personalities were so different from Margaret's and John's, she knew her marriage would look nothing like theirs. But what would it look like? Living together, sharing their day-to-day life. Running the household, hosting dinner parties. She had certainly had enough society training to play a hostess that would make him proud. But what of disagreements? How should they handle them? Her parents never quarreled, but then they hardly spoke—airing grievances only with Margaret and playing blind to their problems. Would he tolerate her dissent, or as his wife, would she be expected to acquiesce? Or keep silent, which was to her was just as bad?

And what of having children?

_He will want children, won't he?_

_I will want children, won't I?_

The knot in her stomach fanned out toward her chest. She knew the mechanics of togetherness—basically. She was relatively sure. But just now, the idea of it filled her with a peculiar sense of panic.

_What will he expect of me?_ She wondered.  _I'll have no idea what I'm doing. And will he? Has he ... certainly not. Probably not. Certainly not._

_I won't know what I'm doing._

_I don't know what I'm doing._

It was at this moment that Margaret was overcome, her frantic thoughts tumbling.  _I don't know how to be a wife. I'll disappoint him. I'll ruin this._ She stood fast, hurried to the wash basin, splashed her face several times—several more times—and scrubbed it with hands that had begun to tingle. Her ears were ringing.  _Oh God, I'll ruin this._ She made for the window, flinging it open and lurching her head and shoulders out into the night.

The air wasn't cool, but the wind helped, and she heaved a sigh, face dripping, hands gripping the windowsill. Across the square the cathedral towers and the garden beside were illuminated by moonlight, and past that was the vast scape of the city, countless rooftops gray against the blue-black of the sky. She concentrated on taking a few deep breaths, and listened to the bustle of a few carriages passing in the distance.

_Silly girl,_ she told herself.  _You're tired and out of sorts._

Margaret cast her eyes to toward the distant silhouettes of the mills beyond Princeton, and she thought of John there, and inhaled slowly, willing herself calm. She couldn't make out which was his, not in the darkness from so far, but she knew he was somewhere there, and that he was pleased. It was a comfort to her-he had faith in her, and he was a man of good judgment. Surely a good night's rest would return her sensibilities.

It was a while before Margaret fell into a fitful sleep. That night she dreamt of John sitting in her father's desk at her old home in Helstone, the door to the study locked-and try as she might, she couldn't get him to open it for her.

* * *

* * *

 


	3. When, of Course, He Saw Her Clearly

Chapter Three: When, Of Course, He Saw Her Clearly

* * *

When the sun was just shimmering at the edge of the horizon and the city streets were beginning to pulse with life, Margaret was already awake. She had lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, for nearly an hour, feeling remarkably foolish. Clearly, she had worked herself into a tizzy, and she couldn't pinpoint why. Yesterday was the first day she had felt both hope and happiness since before her father died. The man she loved, who she had rejected and scorned, had forgiven her—come back to her—and asked for her hand. Life couldn't be more providential. Her tiredness must have accounted for her panic.

Surely the newness of it startled her as well. She had awakened yesterday morning with no notion of marriage nor intimacy, and by sunset had kissed a man— _thoroughly_ —in public, and had abandoned propriety to travel  _alone_  with him halfway across the country, and had ...  _embraced_  him in the train car with no care for who might see, and had agreed to  _marry_  him. And then she had kissed him again. And again.

And she had been thrilled by it.

Thinking of it as she lay in bed that morning, Margaret could feel a flush spreading through her and she swallowed. Yes, the shock of those kisses had done her in last night. But in the rising light of day, even with the promise of seeing John distracting her from the uncertainties that had plagued her through the night, there was a small, quavering restlessness insistent within her—a clench of the stomach she told herself was hunger, the tremble of her hand when she sat too still.

The first thing she did as she sat up was slide off the bed and onto her knees, turn and bury her face in the comforter, and pray.

As of late, it was not a typical way for Margaret to pray. Margaret had made a habit of praying while she walked; conversationally, intimately if not reverently. In her prayers she considered ideas, worked out problems, sorted her feelings; in her prayers, she admitted what she could not to anyone else. Presently, though, she clutched the comforter, squeezed her eyes tight, and her prayer was a whisper of both of thanks and pleading.

When she dressed she began to feel somewhat better, and better still as she carefully pinned up her hair. By the time she went down to the dining room for breakfast, she felt very much like herself. She had tasks to distract herself-a small breakfast (she didn't much feel like eating) and then off to the shopping district in hopes of finding a new dress. If Aunt Shaw and Edith had received her letter this morning, perhaps Dixon might even arrive by the next day, though Margaret guessed it might be two days before her clothes would arrive. To her relief, Margaret was able to acquire several skirts and a blouse, all practical pieces to supplement her travel wardrobe; and a new gown, requiring only hemming, which should be adequate for any impending social functions.

Now, with little more than an hour to spare before she might expect John, she ambled back toward the direction of the hotel, enjoying the sun and the familiar sounds of Milton streets. Though it was a part of the city she'd rarely visited when she'd first lived here, she was relieved to recognize some faces as she passed, and even stopped to talk to a pupil of her father's. By the time she had neared her hotel, she felt as if she'd never left—only she could have recognized then how much she loved it.

Though she took a long way round to the hotel, she arrived earlier than she anticipated, and so she decided she might take a turn about the church gardens; but as she crossed onto the grassy lawn across from the hotel, she saw that John was there, turned away from her and following a path that circled wide around a pretty stone gazebo lined with foxgloves and catchflies and orchids and bell heather. In one hand he held a posy, and he walked with that purposeful stride of his.

At the sight of him her chest fluttered in that delightful, silly way, and as he disappeared round the bend she quickened her pace, stepping onto the same path but in the opposite direction. She smoothed her hands firmly over her skirt, tucked a few straying strands of hair behind her ears, and straightened her shoulders, unable to suppress a giddy smile as he appeared again, now on the other side of the gazebo.

When his eyes caught hers his step faltered, and on his face came a wide grin, apple-cheeked, teeth parted and gleaming. "Miss Hale," he called out, his voice strained, as he came to a stop in front of her, tucking his hat under his arm.

"Mr. Thornton, good morning," Margaret said, her voice lilting, and she held out her hand to shake his. He took it in kind, and then his tall form bowed low so that he could press his lips to the back of her hand much the same way as he had last night. At the contact, Margaret was surprised to feel herself become unshackled from that insidious weight that had been begun to press in on her the night before, and she almost laughed in wonder, a quick exhale puffing out from parted lips as she watched his head rise from her hand.

Their eyes met momentarily before she looked down at his hand, which was now extending the tussie-mussie to her. Two perfect little rose mallows peaked smiled up between sprigs of statice and comfrey leaves; all were all tucked into a tiny silver holder which was embossed with delicate swirls and scrolls, over which she dragged her fingertips.

"Thank you, John. It is so very lovely." At this, he replaced his hat and inclined his head gently, and as she looked up at him she thought she spied a blush on his cheeks. Heaven.

"I trust you're well, Margaret?"

"I'm better, now. And you?"

"I daresay I'm better than I have ever been." John's voice was low and heavy, his countenance so beautiful in its unbridled joy that she thought maybe she couldn't stand it.

"You haven't been waiting long, have you?"

"No-I know I am early, forgive me."

"No, I am glad of it," Margaret said, and she nearly laughed again, much to his curiosity. "We can go if you'd like. I'm looking forward to the walk." Then John stepped beside her, extending his elbow, and when she wrapped her fingers around his arm he beamed at her. They set off across the green, crossing through the shaded areas when they could. His pace had slowed to match Margaret's, and he seemed to her completely at ease. Every aspect of his features was formed from contentment. She wondered how it could be, when she felt so ignited. Holding his arm, feeling his muscles shift gently beneath his coat, and the scent of him—something warm, spicy, sweet like myrrh—set Margaret alight.

"I wonder," Margaret started as they neared the edge of the gardens, "how I missed this place when I first lived here. I think I might have come here every day to walk these paths."

"This place was ill-maintained until a year or so ago," John replied. "I think you'll find much has changed in Milton. The city has been growing exponentially. We even have a free library, now."

"A library? Really?" They paused as they reached the square, waiting for a carriage to pass before John led her across.

"Aye, with nearly twenty-thousand books, in almost any subject one could wish for. There's a line outside when it opens every morning—people are clamoring to educate themselves. The mayor is opening a new Science Hall as well. Milton has become a hub for progress."

"How marvelous! Father would have been so pleased." She felt John's fingers cover her own on his arm, and she glanced up to give him a reassuring smile.

"Do you think he would have been pleased with our engagement?'

"You were already a son to him, you know. Your lessons brought him more happiness than anything else in Milton. And when Mama died, and there was nothing I could do, your presence was his only comfort. You were his closest confidant. He would have been delighted for us."

He smiled, eyebrows low.

His fingertips raked absently in gentle circles over the back of her hand.

Margaret tried not to catch fire.

"How did your mother take the news?" She asked. Her voice was not entirely even.

"Well. Better than I expected, actually. She wants only for my happiness." His fingers kept to their pattern.

"I imagine she was disappointed."

"She was surprised, that is all," he sighed—though Margaret wasn't sure he  _knew_  he had sighed.

"Surely, that is not all. But it is true that any feelings towards me are a result of her love for you, and so I must endeavor to earn her good opinion. After all that has happened I cannot say I blame her for her dislike."

His fingers stopped. "You have done nothing to deserve it." He almost whispered the words, and she could feel him bristle. She was familiar with this mildly irritated state of John Thornton; presently she wasn't sure if it was his mother's dislike of her, or her mention of it, which had caused the irritation. She squeezed his arm gently.

"I have faith that she will see how I feel about you, and all will be well."

His features smoothed, his smile returned, and after a few minutes of walking, the blessed circles began again. Sparks.

"Did you write to your Aunt?"

"I sent the letter by night train. I imagine she might have received it by now."

"Are you worried?"

Margaret squared her shoulders, lifting her chin, defiant, challenging the air in front of her. "I do not need my family's approval to be with you."

"Yes, but do you want it?"

Margaret felt her face falter, just for a moment—she hoped he didn't notice. She measured her response. "My Aunt raised me for half my life. She is as much a mother to me as Mama, and Edith is more a sister than a cousin. I do not feel I am cut from the same cloth as them, but I love them dearly all the same. They are the closest family I have, and I admit it would be a relief to know they could be happy for me."

She turned to him when he stopped walking, and she tipped her head back to see his face pointed down at her, brow just arched, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Then I will endeavor to earn their good opinions."

For just a moment she thought he might lean down to kiss her, right there in the street, and her heels nearly left the ground to lift herself towards him—until she remembered herself. It took her a moment to find her voice.

"I'm certain you will. When they know you as I do, they will love you."

* * *

His mother had not received Margaret warmly, but he hadn't expected her to do so.

Much to his relief, she also wasn't as curt as he had anticipated—although part of that he might have attributed to the ever-distracting presence of his sister, who disliked the sound of silence so much that she felt it her personal mission to see to its demise. Fanny hadn't stopped talking from the moment they arrived, and perhaps he should be thankful for it, though frankly, he hadn't listened to most of what she said. His attention had bounced wildly between his mother and his fiancée. Now he sat at the dining table, next to Margaret and across from his mother and sister. His mother had said nothing since they sat down; Fanny had spent the last ten minutes squawking, gesticulating wildly, and cutting her food into tiny, ridiculously dainty bites. Presently, Margaret was looking on in suppressed amusement as Fanny talked of Milton society living whilst ceaselessly sawing away at her food, and John was looking at Margaret, his adoration unsuppressed. He failed to notice when Fanny stopped talking suddenly; he only noticed Margaret's reaction to the sudden change in subject, and he focused.

"The way John looks at you, it's almost improper! Of course, you've both been lovesick for so long. I knew it all the time, you know, Miss Hale!" Fanny sang, massacring her lunch with her fork. "The way you were always making eyes at my brother, and how you threw yourself on him when the rioters came—"

"Fanny," he warned, and Fanny waived him away.

"Oh,  _John_. See what a big, gruff, grump you're going to marry, Miss Hale? You'll have your work cut out for you, sure enough," Fanny chuckled. Margaret smiled wider—but John noted with near-alarm that something had shifted. At Fanny's words the joy seemed to have drained from Margaret's eyes; now her gaze was suddenly flat, passionless, and it unsettled him. If she would just look at him ...

"Although," Fanny went on, "I suppose you're both rather serious. Not that there's a thing wrong with it, of course—to each his own, and my guess is you'll be well suited for one another. Oh, now, tell me, will you be married in London? Of course, a society wedding would be so much more exciting than anything around here."

"We've made no decisions yet," Margaret replied, and when she turned to John—there it was. Something blossomed when she looked at him, and the smile was meeting those blue eyes, now, and  _God_ , she was divine. He realized as he exhaled that he'd been holding his breath.

"Well, you must decide soon! What with the season just ending, I wager London's bursting with new engagements. If you don't act fast, it'll be impossible to find a good dressmaker! Have you picked a date yet?"

" _Fanny_ ," said Mother. Just the word " _Fanny_ ", and for a moment his sister paused, tilting her head sideways and looking at their mother with some wild, animated expression John couldn't decipher. He hated when they did that.

"I admit I have not thought of it," Margaret responded. "Of course, whatever we decide mustn't interfere with the running of the mill."

"Certainly not more than a few months," John added, giving Margaret a cautious smile—but his face turned quickly sour when Fanny nearly spit out the paste she'd made of her chicken.

"A few  _months_ , John, are you  _mad_?! Everyone knows you must wait at  _least_  six months, so people will know that the union isn't born of"—for the next word alone, she lowered her voice and chided carefully—" _necessity_. Not to mention the flowers, the dress, the parties—"

_What?_

His brow fell. Fists clenched.

How  _dare_ —  _How_ —

" _Necessity_? What is it that you're implying, Fanny?"

" _Me_? Oh, heavens, I'm implying  _nothing_ , John. At least I don't make the rules, anyway. That's just the way these things are done in  _society_. If you don't wait long enough, you'll invite gossip. Miss Hale can tell you."

He turned his head sharply back to Margaret and saw she had blanched. The smile had left her again, and her face was stone, unreadable to him.

This wasn't how this was supposed to happen. Was he foolish to think this luncheon wouldn't—shouldn't—involve insulting Margaret's integrity?

"Well, there are many reasons why an engagement might be shortened," Margaret said, meeting Fanny's gaze calmly. "My own cousin was engaged only five months, because Captain Lennox's regiment was to be stationed in Corfu. I imagine that, had his position required it, their engagement would have been shorter."

Then Margaret laid her napkin beside her plate, and he saw her hands were trembling. His eyes followed when she moved them to her lap, and he watched with a gnawing anxiety as she stretched and wrung her fingers. Above the table, she was still as stone.

Since the day they had first met, John's greatest fascination, often his obsession, was watching the way Margaret moved. He knew the sway of her, the grace of her neck, the curve of her posture, the swivel of her head. He knew her stiffness when she was nervous. He knew the curl of her shoulders when she felt ashamed. This tremble, the twisting of her fingers, white knuckles-was foreign, and his heart demanded to understand.

The table was silent for a moment before his mother interjected. "Surely your Aunt has an opinion on all this, Miss Hale? I'm sure they'll want some say on where you'll be married."

Margaret's gaze dragged over to Mrs. Thornton, and John wondered, chest clenched, whether his mother could sense this  _wrongness_  about her. "I am certain she will. I wrote to her last night to tell her of the engagement, so I imagine I shall hear from her very soon."

Hannah's head reared back slightly in a scoff. "I'm sure I don't understand. You are here. How is it that she does not know of your engagement already?"

"She was only expecting me back in London yesterday. Henry would only have told her this morning that I left—"

" _Henry_?" His mother spat the word out. "Henry who?"

Margaret blinked, opened and closed her mouth, and shook her head gently. "Why, my friend Henry Lennox, the man who accompanied me to Milton. He was traveling with me when I ran into John—"

" _Ran into_ — _where_  did you run into John?" Hannah's voice was rising fast, brows knitted together, features demanding. Margaret swiveled her head toward John, wide-eyed.

"Mother," John tried, "Margaret and I crossed paths at Northampton Station when each of our trains was stopped. She was on her way back to London, and I was on my way home. She offered to restore the mill, and then came back with me."

It washed over John too slowly that they were admitting a great impropriety to the matriarch. He did not expect the silence that followed the ting of his Hannah's fork hitting the edge of her plate, but as he watched her his heart sank fast. He knew that look—it was a look she might have perfected just for Margaret. His mother was venomous, ready to strike. Fanny's face was frozen in ecstasy, eyebrows shot high as they could go, her mouth formed into a devilish little circle.

He  _should_  have expected. He shouldn't have let down his guard.

When Hannah spoke again, it was directed to Margaret. Her eyes were narrowed, and she spoke low through her teeth.

"Do you not think it improper? To just abandon your traveling companion half-way through a journey, and get on a train with another man?"

_Should have expected._ He clenched his jaw, working it roughly from side to side. "Mother, please." He was perilously close to losing his temper.

Beside him, his sweet Margaret was much better at maintaining her composure. "I assure you that Henry understood—"

" _Henry_. Just how well do you know this  _Henry_?"

_Breathe_.  _Stay calm._

"He is a close friend of the family."

"Do you not think he'll tell anyone? How you  _flitted_  away so  _thoughtlessly_? Or what about the hundreds of other people who were  _also_  at that train station?" His mother threw her napkin onto her plate. "Tell me, Miss Hale. What is it about train stations which seems to inspire you to such reckless stupidity?"

His chair rocked back as he rose to his feet, chest heaving. Fanny yelped in delighted surprise.

He couldn't think straight.

Couldn't think. Couldn't think.  _She's wringing her hands._

Couldn't have Margaret treated this way—his  _betrothed_ —in  _her_  house—his mother  _knowing the depth of his feelings_ —

"You will not  _ever_ —" John spat—

—but then Margaret's fingers were on his arm, and her touch stilled him instantly.

"Please— _please_. Sit down," she pleaded. When he looked down at her, he wanted to crumble. He dropped into his seat, bringing his fist to his mouth. Was he really supposed to remain silent? To  _not_  defend her honor?

Margaret began softly.

"Mrs. Thornton. I can see that I have offended you, but please understand it was not my intention. You  _know_  that when I came to Milton to make a business proposition to your son, he was not here. I made that offer when we found each other at Northampton, and when he accepted I returned with him so that we could make the necessary arrangements to enable him to reopen the mill. I was foolish; I did not give any thought to how it might appear to an outsider, and that was my mistake. For that, I can only apologize. I cannot take it back. Your son is an honorable man, and I do not wish to tarnish his reputation. As for my own reputation-"

No. No.

"Do  _not_ ," John growled, seething, begging—

"John, please—that damage is already done." Margaret's voice shook now, an insistent intensity building. Her eyes were glassy. "I aided a man who needed my help—a wanted man, wrongly accused, who needed to escape.  _All_  I did was help an innocent man onto the train. Indeed I am sure if I had not been there the man would have been hanged. In that moment I thought nothing of how it looked, and now I feel acutely the damage it has caused. You think I don't care what people think of me, but you are mistaken. I am mortified— _humiliated_  that people might think that I—"

Margaret seemed to choke on a thought here and had to take a deep, shuddering breath before continuing.

"—but my reputation is not more valuable than a man's life, and so I cannot be sorry for what I did that night. I am only sorry for any hurt it caused your family."

Hannah Thornton blinked. Fanny sat, leaning forward, mouth agape.

Margaret kept still, shoulders back, staring at Hannah with a proud, cold, countenance. John reached for Margaret's hand, which stilled in her lap when he grasped it, and when he raised his eyes he found his mother watching him. Margaret's hand was the only thing keeping him from drowning in rage, and in shame, and he was grateful she held so tight to him.

He couldn't say how long they all sat this way, but his mother was the first to move.

"Clearly, I spoke out of turn," Hannah said. Then, as she stood to leave the table: "Oh, close your mouth, Fanny."

* * *

* * *

 


	4. Where Temperance Resides

Chapter 4: Where Temperence Resides

* * *

Four more minutes had passed-thirty-seven minutes since Margaret had swept out of the room.

John could hear the movement of the second hands on both his pocket watch and the clock on the mantle; the offset ticks played like a beating heart. He could hear the silence between the movements, a tinny, frothy nothing-noise more maddening than the heartbeat by far. He could not, hard as he focused, hear any indication of discourse.

He had been pacing at first, but his footsteps echoed too loudly. He stood by the mantle, but when he shifted his weight the squeak of a floorboard set his teeth on edge. The crinkling of a newspaper was out of the question, so he had taken up the nearest book to him-Mr. Hale's copy of Republic-and sat stiffly on the edge sofa, attempting distraction.

> _"Two virtues_ remain: _temperance and justice. More than the preceding virtues temperance suggests"_

Thirty-nine minutes. He shook his head, regarding the passage again.

> _"Two virtues remain: temperance and"_

His confounded mother. He had bared unto her his heart last night, the woman who had raised him and whose good opinion and advice he had sought above all others for nearly his entire life; to have her treat Margaret so scornfully … and Margaret, in her grace, had remained so poised in spite of his mother's diatribe, his sister's gawk.

John pulled at his tie.

> _"and justice. More than the preceding virtues, temperance suggests the"_

He drummed his fingers against the open book. His Margaret. Shoulders squared, a picture of dignity-but how cryptic her expression had been, and how her hands had trembled in her lap …

Now he could envision the two women, swords drawn, circling one another; he was naive to expect this day to go differently.

He touched his waistcoat pocket, feeling out the little metal circle nestled there. He looked at the clock. Still thirty-nine minutes. He bit his thumb.

> _"temperance suggests the idea of harmony. Some light is thrown on the nature of this virtue by the popular description of a man as 'master of himself'-which has an absurd_ sound, _because the master is also the servant."_

* * *

_Fanny wasn't long behind Mrs. Thornton. As soon as John and Margaret were alone, he turned and reached for her; but at the same time she raised herself and wafted away, leaving him bent over the arm of his chair with his hand still extended toward her stupidly._

_Perhaps she was angry with him, as she should be; his mother had insulted both her intelligence and her integrity. And he had done ... what? Defended her honor?_

_No._

_He'd sat dumbfounded—impotent. Today it was his mother who threw the rock, grazed the temple, and John was just as useless now as he had been then._

_He watched her at the window. She was silhouetted against the sunlight, facing away from him, postured like a Greek sculpture-the antithesis to his stiff, lumbering form as he came to stand beside her. His fingers rested on her shoulder, but she did not acknowledge his presence at length. Her stare seemed empty, though tears threatened to tumble down her cheeks._

_"Margaret?"_

_She still said nothing, did nothing, and the pitch in his chest grew. He took care in turning her to face him and, not knowing what else to do, bent to press his forehead against hers. All he could see was her, and he breathed her name-his lungs had no higher calling now-and he waited. He breathed, and he felt her breath, and he waited … and then her eyes looked up into his, and she smiled at him, a lit candle, an open bloom._

_His sigh was a frantic laugh as his mouth collided with hers, his heart just closer to desperation than delight. The kiss was_  I am sorry,  _and_ I am yours.

_John's hands slid to her neck and the small of her back, daring to pull her a little closer-and to his torment she arched into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He moaned against her, mouth dragging open, pulling her forward so that her body was flush with his, and the rise of her chest against his was fire, was heaven. She was so soft. She smelled of rose water. He was burning. The kiss was_ I need you.

* * *

Forty-one minutes. He scrubbed at his face.

He had thought every day, from the moment he met her, of touching her. There had not been a night where he didn't envision, whether bitterly or full of sweet hope, the touch of her hand, or what it must be like to swallow her in his embrace; to kiss her forehead, her wrists, the pout of her lips.

... And on endless nights when sleep mocked him, he'd succumb to the thoughts he otherwise refused to abide. His favorite—his very favorite—was of the dinner party years before, the white silk gown Margaret had worn; the way the fabric grabbed and shifted against her, and of the way the light of the candlesticks illuminated the slope of her neck and the perfection of her décolletage. He imagined what it would be like, his hands and his mouth exploring every inch of the glow, or what sounds she might make with his face buried in the crook of her neck there, or how those tapered fingers would feel in his hair, and—

(He groaned now at his impertinence—he was a beast, a shameful, savage animal, and he  _wanted_  her, and none of this helped.)

—and all the while he thought that if he could ever simply kiss her, he would be cured of this insatiable malady. His head could be cleared. Just a real kiss could satisfy his heart. The knowledge of her love would quell all restlessness.

He was a fool. The taste and feel of her was honey, and it was agony—he wanted more, and it would never be enough.

Forty-two minutes. He tapped his fingers against the book page.

His hand moved to his pocket again, Fanny's voice sharp in his mind, chirping along to the beat of the second hands— _six months, six months, six months_.

* * *

_"I think," Margaret sighed, pulling back to look at him, "that I will not improve our situation by kissing you so plainly, where anyone walking past could see." Her lips and cheeks were ruddy, eyes still pink, sadness staining her flush of desire. She hadn't quite caught her breath. John was still panting._

_"We're engaged_ — _we can kiss as much as we like." He leaned forward again, but she tipped her head away, and a fervent, vexing itch ignited in him._

_"Not this way. Not right now, not so_ — _so passionately. And certainly not in front of an open window_ — _"_

_John thrilled at her gasp (though he tried not to show it) when he yanked the curtains shut without turning from her. "There," he murmured, stepping closer, "now no one can see us." He brought his lips unbearably close to hers, all agitation and attraction._

_"Someone might walk in."_

_"Let them. I do not care."_

_"But you care about your mother, and she does care who sees. I should speak to her. Now, where do you think she's gone?"_

_Thoughts of his mother immediately iced over those warm, pleasant Margaret-thoughts, and he now found it far easier (though not entirely easy) to keep from kissing her. John was unable to betray his chagrin: "After the way she's treated you, surely there can be nothing to say."_

_"To me, there is plenty to say. No ... no, I must speak to her immediately. Excuse me_ — _" She turned for the door, but he still held her._

_"She was out of line, Margaret, and I will not have her speak to you that way again. I will talk to her."_

_"John, you do not have control over this situation," Margaret said, and he responded, riddled with bitter guilt._

_"To be sure, but I can get control over it yet."_

_Margaret's expression shifted, and she looked at him with aggravated determination. He had seen it many,_ many _times before. "You misunderstand. The conflict is between your mother and me, and so you do not have any authority in this manner. I must set things right. I know I can do this, so you must let me."_

_Where that tone might once have set him on edge, he now found a thrill in it. His response was almost a laugh._

_"_ Let _you? Are people often successful in keeping you from doing exactly what you want to do?"_

_She flushed, and placed a chaste kiss high on his cheek. "Now, stay here. I won't be ten minutes."_

* * *

Forty-four minutes after she left, something shattered distantly.

The book was on the floor now; John was on his feet. He threw the drawing room doors open in his haste towards the noise—they shuddered under the force of his hands. He barreled down the hallway, rounded the corner, and skidded into the little sitting room. Margaret was on her hands and knees near his mother's feet, hunched over a sea of broken china shards. She and Hannah both turned on him with wide eyes, and his mother arose from her chair.

"Heavens, John, are you alright?"

He didn't respond to his mother—did not even look at her—but dashed to kneel by Margaret and take her hand. "Are you hurt?"

She reddened, but she smiled. "Oh, I'm well! I was clumsy—I knocked my saucer off the table. I do apologize again, Mrs. Thornton." She resumed plucking pieces off the floor, but John took the little white fragments from her cupped hand—"Please, let me." —and finished the work for her as she got to her feet.

"It's no trouble. Fanny broke a cup some years back," he heard his mother say, "so the set was already incomplete. I told Miss Hale the maid would clean it up."

"I didn't want to trouble anyone—though I think I failed your son in that attempt. Oh, I had been saying: I will be quite happy using someone in town, but if Aunt Shaw should feel strongly about it, I'm inclined to give in. It's only a dress—certainly not the most important decision to be made."

John pushed himself to his feet, awkwardly cradling the china remains. He noticed now that the two women seemed to be regarding each other with pleasant respect, and he looked at them with equal doses of suspicion and confusion. "Wedding plans?"

"Battle plans, more like it," Margaret laughed. "Mrs. Thornton and I have been discussing negotiation tactics, in case Aunt Shaw and Edith decide to put up a fight about where to have the wedding."

"You needn't fret, Miss Hale. I can be very persuasive when I need to be." Then, after a moment standing between the betrothed, she muttered: "I'll see where Fanny's gone off to."

His mother stopped as she passed him, only for a moment, to lay her hand on his arm. He could see the guilt on her face, but he looked to Margaret once more, watched her smile, before he kissed his mother's cheek. She squeezed his arm gently and left them, looking every bit like a widowed woman.

* * *

Margaret had followed John out of the house and across the mill yard in silence. She was glad for the respite—glad to be away from his mother, even if they had come to terms with one another—and glad to be alone with John again ... if a little flustered.

He'd offered his elbow when they reached the stairs to his office, and though she took it she was careful to let go as she reached the top step. He escorted her into his office; it seemed so much larger now that it had been cleared of its stacks of ledgers and paper. In the center sat a great, empty desk upon which she skated her fingers as she peered out the window, watching. She  _knew_  that no one was around, but she felt she should strive to maintain at least a modicum of propriety—and it seemed that in the dining room she'd had none.

How much strife in the past three years had been caused by the mere appearance of imprudent behavior? Certainly she had learned better—yet her mind was now a train on an unbending track, and had been since the moment his lips first touched hers and she learned how it felt to be so loved. She wanted to kiss John, and hold him. She wanted—

—she wanted things that were yet mysteries, things she'd not wanted in any real way before meeting John Thornton.

She  _didn't_  want people to  _see_  her wanting those things.

So when John closed his office door, and they were very much alone again, Margaret felt the return of an exquisite itch just underneath the skin of her chest. She held her breath as John came to stand in front of her. He leaned down gently in this new way of his: rolling his shoulders forward, bringing his face close to hers, and tilting his head as if trying to read in dimmest light.

"You're alright, then?" His voice was rough with worry, almost a whisper.

"I am well. You need not worry, John-we had a good discussion. I am certain we shall grow to love each other." Margaret reached up and laid her palm on his cheek, and she marveled at the pleasure it brought her, the tug in her chest. She waited for him to kiss her, but he straightened; his brow settled low, lids heavy, and he cast his eyes down his nose.

"I am glad," he said.

Then he was quiet while she waited. For a few moments his lips moved, almost imperceptibly, as if conversing with himself. When he started to speak, he did so as if practicing a tongue completely foreign to him.

"My—darling Margaret. I never thought ... never dreamed-" Then he was silent again; he swallowed, and Margaret saw nervousness branding his face, and she was awash with tenderness.

She had seen this look before.

She had dismissed it then.

"My darling John," she whispered, willing him to meet her gaze, and when he did, she was pleased to see his face stretch into a smile, his frame relaxing.

He stepped back, and watched his own hand as it pulled a shining little something from his pocket; he held it to himself, rather than out to her. She recognized it now—a Fede ring, a delicate golden band formed into two tiny hands which held a small, clear, bright sapphire.

"John." Her breath shook. "It's—"

"It is a trifle, and old-fashioned; only, the handshake reminded me of you. And once the mill is back on its feet, I can buy something more worthy of your hand."

Still he held the ring close to himself; only when she placed a hand on his did he shake from his stupor and, laughing to himself, he slid it onto her finger (she did not mind that it was a bit loose) before diving down for a kiss—and then he swept her into an exultant embrace, pulling her up so that her feet weren't touching the floor, and she gasped in elation and tightened her arms around his neck.

"It's beautiful," she breathed while he peppered her face with kisses; returning her to the floor, he moved some fallen hair from her face, twisting a little curl between his fingers.

Then his movements were slower. His eyes grew dark, he sighed—she trembled—and he grazed his lips against the curve of her jaw just below her ear, and her breath hitched in her throat.

_This._ _This._

He tilted his head to kiss her again, just below his last kiss. The tip of his nose tickled her neck, and (she thought) she should have been mortified to hear herself sigh at the contact, but she wasn't. She felt herself sway, and so she leaned back again, gripping the edge of the desk as she settled against it, and to her delight he followed. His hands met her arms, the placement of his fingers restrained—but his eyes were barely open and his brow was pinched together and she knew that what he wanted wasn't restraint.

His office seemed so loud now, raucous with the stilted rhythm of her heart and with his breath roaring in her ear. When his nose nudged at her, she dropped her head to the side, her other ear meeting her shoulder; when in response he groaned, the noise impossibly deep and close, she could feel the vibration of it string behind her knee and in the arch of her left foot, and she let out a breathy, squeaking sigh. She thought of earlier, when he had clutched her to him, his chest so firm and warm, and she longed for it—and fear and desire sparred within her.

Teetering at the edge of her mind was an awareness of how dangerous a path this might be to tread. Margaret knew little of true physical affection (and less of what it led to) but she wasn't ignorant; she had heard warnings about the passion of lovers, and the ease with which one could lose control if not cautious.

_I can be careful,_  she told herself—but she was still gripping the edge of the desk, and something about the way John slid his hands down her arms to cover her own hands, slipping his fingers between hers, felt dangerous. Margaret could feel some new thread being pulled taut within her, a maddening tug that brought a mist over her thoughts.

_Please._

_Careful. Please._

When John brought his face close to the place where her neck met her shoulder, he paused. She felt the weight and tremor of his breath on her skin. She knew that if she asked, he would kiss her there, and then—she didn't know.

She didn't know, and she wanted to, but instead she turned her head and kissed his cheek once, twice, until his mouth met hers again.  _Careful_.

They continued this way for some time, until John panted against her swollen lips, "What do you think of the first day of Autumn?"

Margaret pulled back. "That's little more than a month from now."

"A month of torture until I can wake up every morning and see you next to me." He radiated joy, his cheeks ruddy from affection.  His look fixed upon Margaret, unraveling her.

"A very long month," she agreed.

* * *

* * *

 


	5. To Crave Deeper Valleys Than This

Chapter Five: To Crave Deeper Valleys Than This

 

* * *

John had bound Margaret in a fluid embrace; he kissed her, over and over, ripe with delicate deliberation.  His arms slipped about her; his fingers traced lines up her spine and just inside the cut of her shoulder blades in continuous, dawdling strokes.  She had been clutching the edge of his desk so long the aches in her fingers had succumbed to buzzing numbness.

For him (it seemed to _her,_ at least) urgency had given way to something sweeter and altogether less threatening, but she couldn't quite meet him in that place yet—

—she ached, and she _couldn't_ —

—so she tried to still herself, and returned his affections cautiously.  When he pulled back to sweep his lips across her forehead, she ducked and hid her head beneath his chin; she balled her fists against him and pressed her cheek to his chest.  Here she could hear the quickened thrum which swelled from underneath the broadness of him, and sway with it as it rose and fell with each sighing breath.  The rhythmic to-and-fro of it gave her the impression of being at sea.

She nearly startled when John spoke, intonation unsteady, voice shuddering and cracking like thunder against her ear. "I'm afraid my eagerness has upset you."

Margaret's head snapped back; agitation clogged her throat. "No!  No.  Everything is happening so quickly, and I admit I am—"

_Desperate._

_Terrified._

_Ashamed._

"—I am overwhelmed." She averted her eyes. Her voice was small and stilted. "But you have not upset me. I think it is wise for us ... not to delay."

His exhale trembled; she felt it on the crown of her head.

"You've no idea how tempted I have been." 

"Tempted?"

His hands slipped down to the small of her back, and he pressed his lips to her temple, murmuring against her skin: "To forget our families, take you to Gretna Green, and marry you before the sun sets."

And she couldn't, and she couldn’t—

Against instinct, she pulled away and moved around the desk toward the window; his hands followed her as she went, arms stretching out, and she shivered as his fingertips slipped off her waist.  She put her hands high on her stomach and willed a breath—

she just needed a moment to _breathe_ —

and when she reached the window she turned to face him with raised eyebrows and what she hoped was an easy smile. "Gretna Green?  A scandal of that magnitude would delight Milton for months, I'm certain."

He smirked, and his eyes drifted down; then, tilting his head, he leaned forward over the desk, bearing his weight on his left hand whilst the fingers of his right ran back and forth along the bevel.  His brow furrowed—he bit his lip and exhaled sharply—and Margaret thought of his weight against her, his hands over hers.  Her knuckles still ached. 

_You've no idea how tempted._

"It's funny," he murmured, "how a man in his thirties marrying the woman he loves should be in any way scandalous." It seemed to require some fortitude to move; then he circled around the desk.  He perched on its edge, long legs braced against the floor, his arms crossed.  He might have appeared relaxed—only his fists were closed, knuckles white. She was sure she saw in his eyes what she felt in the pit of her stomach, and she looked down to spare herself from it. 

"I'm certain most scandals don't feel so scandalous to those in the midst of them." Margaret toyed with her ring. "I never seem to discover I'm involved in scandal until well after the fact."

"You're too good to recognize scandal when you see it."

Her sigh was dry, and almost a laugh.  "I fear you confuse goodness with ignorance, Mr. Thornton."

"You want to believe the best of the world. That's not a symptom of ignorance, but of virtuousness."

"Absconding to Scotland hardly seems the virtuous choice." 

"No."  John dragged his palm across his open jaw. "As it is, Mother will have a hard enough time coming to terms with a month-long engagement."

"I don’t think she will be so averse to it, after all." 

"No?" His eyebrows, the tilt of his head, betrayed his skepticism. 

"She knows that an expeditious marriage will benefit the mill. The sooner Mr. Bell's money and property are yours, the better."

John waited for a beat before speaking, squinting at her as if she was an equation he was trying to work.  He pushed himself off the desk; his arms crossed tighter.  "It isn't Mr. Bell's money anymore—it's yours, and will continue to be yours." 

His voice was so gentle. She wanted to argue— _What have I done to earn that money?_ — but here again he came to her, resting now against the windowsill so that he was beside her, his arm almost brushing against hers. She swiveled to face him.

"Not according to the law," she countered.

"No, but according to us. You will be Lady of the house: under less unusual circumstances, I would hope you to learn all you care to about our finances, and thusly feel at liberty to spend as you see fit.  Since you now own Marlborough Mills, the house, everything—well, that goes all the more without saying. I know you to be judicious and thoughtful.  If you do not wish to be so involved, I won't make you; but I hope you will continue to regard the wealth as your own, as well as any future prosperity of ours.  You are the only reason the mill will live."  

"Oh please, don't. You give too much credit to the money," Margaret replied—and his expression was so defenseless, his sentiment so ridiculous, that she was induced to make bare her opinion. "Everyone knows _you_ made the mill what it was, through toil and discipline, and _you_ will be the reason it thrives again.  You raised yourself up from poverty to become a Master among men. That is why you are the pride of Milton, John Thornton. You mustn't ever forget that."

She knew at once that if she had meant to relieve herself from passion, she had spoken too much. His smile faded, and the sight of a sudden, glassy sheen to his eyes stabbed high behind her left breast. 

For the second time that afternoon, memories of that ugly rejection surfaced viciously. She recalled his countenance on that distant morning, the waterlogged blue fixed upon his hat as he smoothed its brim repeatedly, needlessly in the stretching silence.  The shine of his eyes had opened her own— _yes_ , he had loved her, and _yes_ , he would love her—as he fled the room. 

And now—here he was, all warm and close with the same flooding eyes that refused to blink. At one time she might have interpreted this look as forfeit to some abominable thought, but now he was _looking_ at her, and it was different, and she was not a fool. 

Just the same way it had the day before, John's hand cradled her face.  He shook his head gently—his mouth opened, then closed—and he sighed, heavy and slow as he watched her.  His thumb skimmed her temple in slow, petting strokes.  "I don't know how to deserve you."

"How silly. I know you to be incapable of abiding in any other state," Margaret replied. 

He drew a deep, trembling breath which heaved his shoulders; by and by, the threat of falling tears rescinded.  He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to hers. 

"I don't think anyone has dared call me silly since I was a boy," he whispered.

"It's a rare form. I think I should like to see more of it."

"I'll make no promises to that; I'm a man of business."

"So you are.  Now, come—let us take a walk. You can take me to tour the mill.  It's high time I educate myself about the cotton industry."

 

* * *

 

In the three-o'clock hour, a postal messenger arrived at Thornton Manor with a telegram addressed to Miss Margaret Hale. Insistent upon delivering the slip of paper only to Margaret, he was ushered out of the house by an unenthused Mrs. Thornton, whereupon they found Margaret and John entering the mill yard.  

John was escorting Margaret down the staircase adjacent to his office; though the steps were narrow they walked side-by-side, her hand holding his elbow.  As they went down he inclined his head to speak to her—she tipped her head, stretched her neck to listen—and John’s lips were pulled back in a broad grin. 

Mrs. Thornton watched this tender exchange with marked discomfort—not because of its intimacy, but because for his happiness John could have been a stranger to her, his posture so at ease, his eyes so bright.  That he had gone so long without this happiness was a brutal strike to her heart, as she knew there was no man alive more deserving.  So strong was her love for him that she might have embraced Margaret for making him so happy, even if she _had_ been the despicable girl Mrs. Thornton once believed her to be.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs John caught sight of his mother and steered toward her, but Mrs. Thornton was pained to note the shift in his features as he looked away again.  His eyes cooled, cheeks lowered, jaw sharpened. She saw John tuck in his arm to pull Margaret closer; his hand went to cover hers. Mrs. Thornton's  sins would not be forgiven as easily as she had hoped.

As Margaret exchanged a coin for the slip of paper in the messenger’s hand and thanked him, Mrs. Thornton kept her eyes trained on her son—but he would not look at her.  His eyes were on Margaret, and his hands were just lifted away from his sides, almost reaching out, impatient.  His fingers flexed.

"It's from Cousin Edith," Margaret said as she scanned the paper.  "They received my letter.  Aunt Shaw is coming by train today—arriving at five o’clock—and hopes to dine with me."  She looked between John and Mrs. Thornton.  "I'm afraid I'll need to return to the hotel.  I am sorry to cut short the tour, John—I really should like to see more of the mill.  Perhaps we may continue tomorrow?"

"Of course.  Excuse me—I’ll go arrange for a cab.”  He took her wrist with his forefinger and thumb, brought her hand up to his face, and kissed the back of it gently—Mrs. Thornton was jarred by the sight, by his ease in showing such affection before her—and then he retreated, and the two women stood in the yard alone.

"Miss Hale,” said Mrs. Thornton, “I hope you and your Aunt will join us for dinner tomorrow.  I'm sure she and I have much to discuss." 

Margaret nodded and thanked her with more warmth than she expected; Mrs. Thornton wished John had seen it. The matriarch was caught off guard when Margaret extended a hand to her.  She took it without hesitation, though, and attempted a smile.

She saw the ring then.  It was lovely—too big for Margaret’s dainty finger—and just the kind of thing that might catch John’s eye.  Sensible, traditional, not garish. 

He hadn’t told her he’d gotten a ring.

She turned Margaret’s palm down gently to get a better look, flattening Margaret’s hand in her own.  It was then she noticed the state of Margaret’s fingernails—typically meticulous, they were soiled with some unsightly substance, the edges marred with waxy, flaking peels. 

Margaret noticed, too; she pulled her hand back to inspect it and started. “Oh!  I …” She brought her hand closer to her face, paused—and then she reddened, and dropped her hand to her side. 

Mrs. Thornton suppressed that ever-present urge to roll her eyes, and raised an eyebrow.  Her smile felt absurd, but it felt genuine. 

“No need to fret, Miss Hale.  You’ll be a Thornton soon enough, and Thorntons aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.”  

* * *

 

In her London years, Margaret had witnessed her Aunt bear every manner of unsavory emotion.  Mrs. Shaw was generally agreeable, but her high expectations were matched by a propensity for exaggeration; accordingly, Margaret was quick to discover that Mrs. Shaw was a woman of absurdly predictable affectations. 

Margaret assumed that Mrs. Shaw would take dinner in her room, and also that she would take the liberty of ordering dinner for the both of them; on both accounts, she was correct, and this pleased her. She thought the evening might prove a comfort to her frayed sensibilities after a day so punctuated with unfamiliar horrors—but as she entered her aunt’s hotel room, her stomach still tightened. 

She found her aunt resting on a tufted settee in the sitting room of her suite, looking agitated and red-faced. 

"Venison Dufour," Mrs. Shaw sighed as Margaret leaned in to kiss her cheek, "though I doubt it shall be as good as what cook makes.  Sit, Margaret.”

_Deep breath._

Margaret first took a seat in a chair across from her, but then Mrs. Shaw shook her head, blond curls bouncing ridiculously about her, and patted the empty space next to her on the settee.  Margaret was reluctant to oblige—but then, really, she was reluctant to be present at all.  A hollow pain had been growing since she received the telegram; now the tightness in her stomach had fanned out toward her chest and a terrible, disjointed feeling had come about her.  She felt the urge to shake out her limbs, throw her arms out again and again to dispel this irritation. Instead, she clasped her hands neatly in her lap.

"Margaret, dearest," Mrs. Shaw began, but she stopped—paused, mouth open—and patted Margaret firmly on the wrist.  "Ooh, I do not like this.  I shall have to get straight to the point."

"Henry spoke to you," Margaret guessed—she was surprised when her aunt ruffled at her statement. 

" _No_ , in fact.” Mrs. Shaw made a show of straightening her posture.  “I called on Henry this morning, _after_ we received your letter. What a way to discover this news! I was shocked he didn't have the decency to come to us last night and tell us what had happened, but he was insistent that as your _lawyer_ , he couldn't speak on any such matters. _Ridiculous._ "

"Henry is a good man. I regret having hurt him, if I did." She didn’t want to say to her aunt that she _knew_ she had hurt him—she wasn’t sure Henry would appreciate the honesty.

"If he was a good man, he would not have let you run away like that," Mrs. Shaw scoffed.  Margaret prickled.

"No, you mustn't blame him!—he bore no fault, and was a gentleman at every turn.”  Then, because she could not help herself: “And I didn't _run away_. I am of age, and the decision was mine."

"Dearest, the decision was foolishly made. To leave your escort and run off with some _man_." 

"You speak as if I do not know John, and I do. I know it is not how you would have me behave, but I do not regret the choice.  The right decision isn’t always the seemly one—surely you can understand that."

That seemed to set Mrs. Shaw on edge; presently her voice pitched like a boiling kettle, and she did not stop chiding even as a maid came in with the first dinner tray.

"You do not— _oh_ , how provocative of you!  Your mother and I did not raise you to be such a renegade.  Could you not have shown me the gratitude of coming home, and requesting that your Mr. Thornton behave like a gentleman?"

 _So preoccupied with appearances—yet she gives no thought to what she says about John in front of the maid,_ Margaret thought, cheeks reddening. She gave her aunt a pleading look and waited for the maid to pass before she spoke again.

"He was—he _is_ —a gentleman." _A man._ "And when I came back with John, I _did_ come home.  Oh, pray don't take offense, Aunt, for I mean no disrespect! I have _changed_. I will always treasure the many years I spent under your wing, but this place is where I belong."

Mrs Shaw’s eyes were watering now; a great, blotching blush overtook her face.  "You belong in _Milton_?  Edith said you called it a ‘snow white hell’. How can you say you belong here?"

"When I came to Milton I was arrogant, and weak, and childish. Circumstance has tried me, and it has made me stronger."  Margaret leaned forward, took her aunt's hands in her own, and looked up to her with soft, pleading eyes. "Milton has made me stronger. John has made me better, and kinder, and more thoughtful. I am happy here.“ 

Mrs. Shaw cupped her hand about Margaret's cheek; it was a rare display, and it made Margaret's eyes sting. When her aunt spoke, it was with the whispered tone of an admitted secret.  "Oh, Margaret. You truly love him."

Such declarations still seemed foreign to Margaret, and her heart thrilled to speak it aloud.  She half-laughed. "I do, Aunt.  He is so good, and honest, and compassionate, and patient. I confess I have never felt such regard for a man—for any man, until John."

"Oh, my darling."  Mrs. Shaw feathered a kiss on Margaret's forehead, and brushed her hand over the spot. They sat in silence for a moment.  Then: "And, you're certain he loves you?  That he loves you for your heart?"

_Oh._

Margaret's face went stony in betrayal of her plummeting heart.  She straightened—sniffed once—dusted her lap. "Please, speak plainly. You mean to ask if it is _me_ he desires, or if it is my _money_."

Of all her qualities, Margaret’s blunt nature was what Mrs. Shaw (and most others) disliked the most.  This compulsion was exacerbated when emotions ran high, and presently Margaret found a small, bitter satisfaction in the way her aunt threw her head back as if smacked soundly by the declaration.

Mrs. Shaw took a moment to compose herself.  "I know that his business has failed—"

"—but you do not know _him_."

They sat, thick in silence, for a moment.  Margaret sniffed again.

"You're quite right, Margaret; I do not know him. I only want to protect you."

For all Mrs. Shaw's pretension, there was something genuine in her voice which struck at Margaret—

—or perhaps it was the set of that Beresford mouth, her pursed and dimpled frown so like her mother's when she worried.  Margaret might even have convinced herself, in that moment, that it was her mother who sat at her side presently—her mother, having tread the path of stability rather than rash passion—and tenderhearted pity overtook her.  She found her grace. Her voice trembled.

"You have always said that Edith and I should marry for love. I have held fast to that for many years; I have rejected decent and honorable men because I did not love them ... or, because I didn't believe them to love me.  I _know_ John has loved me for many years. I do not doubt his devotion."  

"Well."  Mrs. Shaw brought a kerchief to her eyes, and cleared her throat.  "Then, I don't doubt it either."

 

* * *

 

Marlborough Mills had eased into nightfall; window by window, the rooms in the house across the yard darkened. John knew the path they would follow; if he had watched tonight he could have timed the dimming of the lights without the use of his watch.  

As it was, he kept his eyes on his work.

His office was dim—only one lamp had been lit, and then placed in the middle of the floor.  Spread out before him were a few jars of oils and wax and some stained cloths. His jacket and necktie discarded, sleeves rolled up, John knelt on the floor with a rag in hand, diligently sweeping it in tiny, precise circles along the edge of his desk.

He was nearly finished.  Where now there were only faint discolorations, there had earlier been two distinct mutilations, a few feet apart from each other— two sets of four parallel, jagged scratches raked up and over the bevel, contrasting against the dark polish like tiny, delicate strikes of lightning.  Now they were barely perceptible; one wouldn't see them, if not looking for them. 

He had never been jealous of a desk before.

He did not know what time it was when he heard his mother's footsteps ascend the stairs outside his office—the creaking, the swinging of the outer door, and then a shuffling that quieted at the door frame a few feet behind him.  She didn’t speak.  Neither did he.  He'd not be the first.  

"I thought you'd be back hours ago," she called after a moment, and even these words elicited a sharp stab in his chest.  He kept his eyes forward, his motions deliberate.

"I walked back—cut through Princeton on business."

"You missed dinner."

"Aye."  A beat.  "I've much to do before the mill reopens."

"Polishing the furniture isn't a pressing issue, certainly."

Margaret's shoulder, her neck shuddering underneath him, blossomed in his mind first; then, the way her lips pressed together as she frantically picked bits of beeswax polish from underneath her fingernails in the mill yard—how her cheeks had burned when she realized he had returned to escort her to the cab.  She'd looked ashamed; it had killed him.

"It needed doing."

There was no noise behind him—no sigh, nor tap of the foot.  His hand stopped—

"We chose a date."  His voice was thick, high, hoarse.  "The twenty-third of September."

—and he began again, shifting to the place where the other set of scratches had lain; and he waited, steadfast in his determination. 

It was stupid and stubborn; he knew his mother's heart, so often at odds with every other part of her, was good, and it wanted him to be happy.  His own heart could even forgive her, a moment at a time—

—and then he'd remember her callousness, her cold stare, and his chest would clench bitterly, prodded by anger, and he would have to start anew. 

"The weather will be cooler by then," she said.

He dipped his cloth into the linseed oil.  Everything he might want to say was stuck in his throat.  He felt her footsteps on the floor as she approached—when her hand touched his shoulder, he stilled.  He put the cloth down.

"You should visit the minister tomorrow.  They can begin the banns on Sunday." A beat.  Then: "I apologized to Miss Hale, earlier. She was good enough to forgive me my harshness."

Anger crested again—he put his fist to his mouth. 

"Indeed. Margaret is very good."  How could such a sentence sound so ferociously angry?

"You must understand, John—there is so much about her that I did not know.  Once she explained things to me—"

"She owed you _no_ explanation." He pushed himself to his feet. His movements were stilted.  " _You_ set out to hurt her! You were cruel, and you—"

_And you—_

_And you—_

He couldn't finish. 

Tonight, he didn't have the strength to watch his tongue, and so he muttered, "I'll be in here a while yet.  You should go to bed."  Then he turned, finally, towards his mother; he leaned down and kissed her cheek.  He could not look at her.

Her footsteps retreated—shuffling, then the outer door swung shut, and the stairs creaked—and then there was quiet again. 

He found his chair and dropped into it, first scrubbing his face with his palms, then his scalp with his fingers. 

His mother was a good woman. 

Not kind, to most, but good. 

She loved him fiercely, and had raised him and cared for him in the worst of times.  When Margaret rejected him, she did what she thought would be helpful, and her every action seemed to support the cause of protecting and supporting him.  He loved her.  She was a good mother.

_But if I have to choose—_

_If she makes me choose—_

He fell asleep in his office chair, head on his desk, and dreamt of Margaret, sighing and scraping and bleeding sunlight from her fingertips.

 

* * *

* * *

 

A/N: I know this chapter is slow—I've fought with it for a while now.  I hope it makes sense when I quote Joe McMillan to explain it: this chapter is "not the thing—it's the thing that gets us to the thing."

Your comments have been so kind.  If I could bake you all cookies for reading, I would.

 


	6. The Sun That Never Sets

Chapter Six: The Sun That Never Sets

* * *

 

 

Margaret held the front of her evening dress—a fine, silver-blue silk once chosen by Edith—against her, with one hand on her chest and another on her stomach; her eyes were fixed upon the reflection of the lace edging of her sleeve, but she did not perceive it. Behind her, Dixon was working her way up the long ascent of tiny buttons, her movements deft, her eyes red.

From the street below some sign of the late-afternoon lull came through the open window—Margaret turned her head toward it—and she closed her eyes, praying for a cutting breeze, something to slice through the warmth, distract her.

When it was quiet, Margaret’s mind was fissured. One half of her recalled keenly the pieces of her where John resided—a tentative embrace at Northampton, the discovery of passion in a train car, rash abandon in the mill—the weight behind the black of his eyes lay heavy on her, and she could not reconcile it with the other half of her.

The other half of her stood here now, with her red-eyed maid.

The other half of her had been warned by her aunt that she couldn’t abandon London so easily—she had duties to her family.

In her mind, she tried to press the pieces together, and could not make them fit.

It was Dixon who cut into the quiet instead, her voice soft—more tired than Margaret thought she had ever heard it. She kept her head turned, but she opened her eyes. Another conversation she didn't want to have.

"I'm too old for this place, Miss Margaret." She sniffed. "I bore it for your dear mother, God rest her soul—but I don't have it in me to do it again. Not with all the grief it's brought me. It's time for me to move on." Dixon tugged gently against the top of the dress as she reached the last few buttons.

"What will you do?"

"My sister still lives in Homerton. She could use my help."

"Dixon," Margaret started; and the words in her heart refused to rise to her lips, and the muscles in her throat began to ache from defeat.

"I never knew a gentler spirit than your mother," Dixon said, voice light and a tremble. "She had her strengths, but she was such a fragile thing—too fine and delicate for this life. And strong a young man as Master Fred is, I’ve no doubt that even now if he caught cold he'd turn right back into that needy little babe I used to hold every night." Then, with another tug as she smoothed the fabric at Margaret's shoulders: "'Course, you never needed me."

Margaret spun to face her. "Dear Dixon—that's not true!—"

"You've always been just as headstrong as you are good-hearted. Thank the Lord you came back to Helstone when you did. You've no idea how much your parents needed your strength. Where you got that stubborn resilience, I'll never know."

"I have an inkling," Margaret half-laughed, turning to face Dixon, and when her face began to twist she leaned in and kissed Dixon's cheek, taking a hand in hers. Then she dropped her head and stilled herself, measuring her breaths, relaxing the muscles in her face. She knew she would not fool Dixon, but she had the decency to try.

"Oh, posh. You won't do either of us any good carrying on that way, you know." Dixon cleared her throat and moved to straighten Margaret’s skirts. "Look at you, Miss. All grown up, and every bit as lovely as your mother. And now you'll be married, and have babies of your own."

She tried to picture children of her own. She grasped at tiny traits—black hair, blue eyes, tiny fingers, like Sholto, perhaps, only _not_ —but she couldn't piece them together, and her stomach tightened.

"It's all so sudden, isn't it?"

Dixon raised an eyebrow.

"Now, I wasn't going to say a word, not a _word_ , but you might have gone about this all a different way. The look on their faces when they got your letter—your cousin was fit to be tied!" Dixon's features were meant to be stern. "Still, more I think about it, I don't think there's a man alive more suited for you than Mr. Thornton."

Margaret smiled. His features were easy to conjure, and she did so, one by one—eyes, nose, lips, hands—

—and then she thought of his lips against her neck—

—and then she thought of the London-bound train—

—and this great divide only grew.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, let _me_ , John,"

In the drawing room, Fanny stood on her toes; she had tugged John down by the collar, and set to work straightening his cravat. "I've become quite practiced at this—have you noticed? Mr. Watson's tie is always pristine. You'll need to look your best tonight. Londoners appreciate precision, you know."

"Thank you, Fanny." He didn't sound it, but John was sincere; he had been fidgeting with his tie for some time, and every attempt seemed to make it worse.

Mrs. Watson beamed at him first—then she frowned, and sniffed. She scrunched her nose, leaning toward him. "Have you put on extra cologne?"

"No," John scoffed. Then: "Why? Is it too much?" He sniffed his shoulder, then the sleeve of his jacket, and he frowned.

"Don't be silly. You really can't have too much cologne. You should try a more modern scent, though. I got Watson the most exquisite new cologne, made in the Orient—very exotic—stop fidgeting so!—I'm sure I've never seen you so nervous."

John was turned to the mirror above the mantle again, pulling the ends of his sleeves and reaching up to adjust his collar—Fanny slapped his hand away, and he stifled a grimace. He squared his shoulders.

"I've no reason to be nervous. I've met Mrs. Shaw before."

His sister crowed out a laugh, and leaned her head against the mantle. Her arms were crossed, lips pursed and smiling—and with her eyebrow cocked just so, he could see in her face remnants of the expression their father would wear in the days when he could be amused. The likeness endeared her to him in a moment he might otherwise find intolerable; it gave him hope that at the core of her lay a sentiment heretofore foreign to him.

"You think yourself cavalier, but I can see it in your eyes." She appeared to be taking herself seriously. "You are petrified. I don't blame you. It is _paramount_ to impress her family."

 _I'm not worried about impressing them_.

_That's a lie._

He sighed.

She brushed at his lapels, already pristine, and snorted. "You _do_ clean up quite well, though, you know."

"... But?"

"But _nothing._ Don't be so exhausting."

"You trying to compliment me, Fan?"

"Hardly!"

"I take it I won't be an utter embarrassment to you, then?"

"We'll see. You're handsome enough, if you can overcome your natural gruffness."

She turned to cross into the dining room now, straightening her dress at once. With her back turned to him, he sniffed at his wrists, and rolled his eyes. "Is Watson joining us?"

He watched her as she surveyed the table. She held a wine glass to the light, tilting her head. "Soon enough. He'll be late from the exchange tonight—oh, but he's eager to talk business with you." She moved to another glass; her eyebrows pulled down. "I almost told him not to come. I said you'll both have to wait until the ladies retire if you want to talk cotton. Don't you two turn this into one of your boring business dinners! Tonight is all about the wedding. _Don't_ spoil it."

"Believe it or not, I do take an active interest in my own wedding."

At the words a small, thrilling tug ached just behind his breastbone. He wondered if his sister (moving down the table, inspecting pieces of dinnerware seemingly at random) had felt the same way he did now. He could guess that she did; wedding planning had left her in raptures, when not hysterics.

She adjusted a plate to the left a fraction of an inch, then to the right, and again. When he studied her face, he saw in her eyes some expression that had been familiar to him once upon a time, and with the recollection he was disquieted. Then the question occurred to him—and a bud of guilt at not having ever truly considered it threatened to blossom—of whether or not she was happy _now_.

He thought—guessed—hoped; and he wanted to ask, and he meant to. His intake of breath was intended for the question—but then Fanny spoke, the haunt in her eyes vanishing, and the question soured on his lips, and he did not think of it again before his own wedding came.

"You know, John," —she dusted the top of a chair— "I was a bit worried that after you insulted dear Watson by refusing his business offer, you might never make amends—"

John scowled.

 "—I told him not to take it personally—I _told_ him, I said 'my brother may be stubborn, but he was just doing what he thought was right!'—"

He tugged his sleeve again, jaw working. Rolled his shoulders.

"—but I really thought the damage had been done! Lucky for you, Watson is a forgiving man. I shall be glad to see you two getting on again."

Fanny paused at the low set of his brow. John turned on his heel and disappeared into the hallway.

"Where are you going?"

"To wash off this cologne."

 

* * *

 

All things considered, the night was a victory for the two families.

The affable nature of Mrs. Thornton's conversation with Mrs. Shaw was a thing to be celebrated. Margaret tried, as she stood in the parlor with the Watsons, watching the two women across the room, to remind herself of that. Mrs. Shaw, for all the difficulties she now presented Margaret—

_I've got to tell John—_

—seemed at heart enthused about Margaret's engagement. While "enthused" had not, thus far, been the best descriptor for Mrs. Thornton, she was at her most pleasant this evening, smiling and nodding as she spoke with Mrs. Shaw. And John—

_I've got to tell John—_

Fanny had said he would join them shortly, and now Margaret was a breath held underwater.

Perhaps only minutes had passed—Margaret could not tell—but she felt frustration blossom as she waited. Fanny spoke of a poem she’d read, and a concert she longed to attend; Watson nodded, and checked his pocket watch incessantly. For her part, Margaret had a particularly difficult time giving the conversation her full attention, and so she was surprised to realize only at the end of it that Fanny was issuing an invitation Margaret was remiss to decline quickly enough.

  
"—for another _month_ , it's simply _absurd_." Fanny gestured toward Margaret with a flapping hand. "There's no point in staying in that hotel when you could stay with me and Mr. Watson, especially as we are to be sisters now."

Margaret raised a hand toward Fanny, palm down, fingers splayed gently. She _tried_ to object. "Mrs. Watson—"

"Fanny!—"

"—Fanny," Margaret smiled, her head just shaking. "You're too generous! Truly, I don't want to intrude—it's really not any trouble to stay at the hotel."

"It wouldn't be intruding in the slightest, would it, Mr. Watson?"

At first he nodded, eyes fixed again on his watch; but when he looked up at Margaret, his posture changed. "Of course, Miss Hale, it wouldn't intrude—but Fanny, we mustn't pester her."

Fanny's jaw slackened, her back arched, and she glanced between her husband and Margaret. "Pft! Excuse me! I rather thought to make the offer out of kindness. I am aware, Margaret, of the very great moral value you place on financial responsibility, but I certainly shan't force the issue."

"No! No.” Margaret was defeated. “You're so gracious, and of course I will happily accept if you're certain I will not be a burden. I have been eager to see the wallpaper you had special-ordered."

"Oh, and the drapes I got to match! They're _very_ vibrant. It's settled, then. You can come and stay with us tomorrow."

"Well, I—"

"Please don't thank me, Margaret! I'm merely doing my duty as a sister."

She might have explained to Fanny that tomorrow was no good, but she saw him first, and all but forgot. She had heard his feet on the stairs as he hurried down, his steps sleight, head bowed, tugging on the fabric at his wrists. His eyes raised to meet hers, and for just a moment he stopped where he stood, hands frozen in front of him. The corners of his mouth curled into a wide, gentle smile, and something loose and scattered inside her reassembled.

She smiled back, anxious as he rounded the bottom of the staircase and made to greet Mrs. Shaw, all smiles and politeness, whilst Margaret was blockaded by the Watsons. She attempted discretion as she raised herself on her toes to see him over Fanny’s shoulder, leaning, stretching her neck. He said something; Mrs. Shaw laughed.

Some moments later Margaret remembered herself; and her eyes were the last part of her to return to the conversation. When they did they met the laughing expression of Mr. Watson who, having looked up from his watch and surveyed Margaret's face, turned and suggested to Fanny that she indulge him in a piano piece she'd lately practiced.

"Now?"

" _Fanny_ ," Watson whispered, and he tipped his head toward John, who was approaching Margaret with an unblinking gaze. Fanny pursed her lips, hid a smile, and sighed as he stepped beside Margaret.

"Oh, alright—you two lovers have a moment to yourselves. Just make certain you behave."

"— _If you please_ , Mrs. Watson—excuse us Miss Hale, Thornton."

Mr. Watson clasped her arm in his elbow and began to walk; Fanny's shoes dragged against the floor in protest as Mr. Watson pulled his wife along.

And then—her heart thrummed as John came to stand beside her. He took her hand, his fingers sighing against hers, and led her to a bench which had been pushed to the corner; it afforded no true privacy but there they were as alone as they could hope to be that night.

She sat first, and then he. His frame inclined toward hers, his shoulders curled forward. His head was tilted down, and his eyes were dark and pleasant, and he smelled of bergamot, and she might have tumbled headlong into his embrace if she hadn't felt keenly how his weren’t the only eyes trained on her, or if she hadn't heard the low laughs and whispers—

_young love—_

_oh, how she's blushing—_

"There's still time to run away." His tease was a murmur, and its timbre sliced through her agitation, skittering across the small of her back. With their hands resting on her lap—John still grasped her fingers in his—his thumb danced a slow, sneaking path along the inside of her left wrist. The pattern was almost disorienting.

"The more they stare," she whispered back, "the more tempted I am." Across the room, Fanny started to play, the rhythm stilted, the distraction welcome. “As if we’re an exhibit at a zoo.”

"They seem to be getting along, at least. And your Aunt greeted me with great conviviality. I trust all is well with you?"

"It is well," Margaret said. _And it is not._ "She's been keen to discuss the minutiae of wedding planning with your mother."

"Let them,” replied John. “A welcome distraction, if it means we might have a moment of privacy.”

“I fear true privacy is unattainable—we are trapped, you see—but at least we are trapped together.”

She glanced up to find him studying her. The teasing tone had left him—his voice had gone thick—and now there was something there the promise of something heavy and unrelenting in its thirst.

“All day I’ve longed to see you, and now you’re here, I fear what I long for is still out of reach.”

“Oh.” It was all she could say. _Oh—_ and heat fanned out across the skin beneath her collarbone, and her expression must have frenzied him, for he dropped his head close to her ear, pulling his hands back to brace them on the bench.

"Margaret," he whispered, "Forgive me my impertinence, if I—“

—he stuttered, and she heard him swallow—

"You are so lovely, and—to be this near, and not be allowed to kiss you, it’s madness. It’s sin.”

(Mrs. Thornton had followed into the dining room Mrs. Shaw, who was admiring Mrs. Thornton's crystal. Across the room, Fanny muddled her way through a song, and Mr. Watson stood opposite the piano with his back pointedly turned. So it was, that no one saw how John's face tucked behind Margaret's, nor how his hand snaked out to hold her waist, fingers stretching and then curling, nor how for a moment her eyes fluttered shut.)

 _Too much, too much_ —

—need and mortification—immense, immeasurable, dissonant—took root. The damnable pinch in her stomach twisted and thickened, and unwelcome was a sudden memory: the design of his face, the night he found her at the station with Fred, clenched and contorted and splintered—

and when his fingers gripped her, she gasped—

Margaret tucked her hands up betwixt them to press against his chest with slight, shaking pressure from the heels of her palms; and he raised himself up, pulling his arm back and looking as if he'd been stung. He blinked once, and again.

He pleaded hoarsely: "I—forgive me, I—"

"I'm going to London," Margaret cried out, losing all her confidence half-way through the declaration, “for—for a little while."

Seconds stretched out before her, and she placed her hand to her tangled stomach. She waited for him to _say something_ but, as moment passed to moment, he did not. She raised her eyes to his stunned expression; he was almost squinting, his lips parted as if to speak, but no sound emerged.

"Aunt Shaw bade me to return with her—to give myself time, for a proper goodbye. I shall be gone for two weeks at most."

Silence. He swallowed, squared his posture, as if he must gather himself up to speak. "You want to go?"

Her heart could have ruptured and withered, could have torn itself in two for the dread in his tone, and quickly as she could, she took up a hand in each of hers. "Aunt Shaw is asking me to, only temporarily. You see—I need to pack the rest of my things, and sort through everything left by mama and papa.” She smiled to encourage him, but he wasn’t looking at her—rather, his eyes were cast down at their hands.

"So you _want_ to go, then?"

The knot in her stomach rose to her throat, and she could hear it in her voice as she tried to reassure him: "This will give you some time with your mother. She will cherish it, I'm sure."

"You did not answer my question, Margaret.”

She glanced across the room, and thought she saw the snap of Mr. Watson turning his head away. She blushed, and she groaned. " _Want_ is not the word, John. What I want—“

_Too much, too much, be careful—_

She could not tell how it came to her to take up his hand with frightful tenderness, upturning his palm; nor why with tender, shaking affection she used the tip of her finger to trace the creases which scattered across it, over the wrist and about the thumb, easing the joints of each finger. Only she knew, words having failed her thus far, that she could explain it, she could _give_ , in this way—deliberately, she traced the paths, tiny feathering possibilities, and when she felt his hand tremble, she opened hers, arching each finger across his wrist his until their palms met, and she stilled herself.

"I think— I _know_ I should go. Understand me. I must take proper leave of the life I have known. It will all be so different, soon enough."

He called her name. She heard it; she felt it, and she understood the meaning. The vastness of it gave her courage to lift her head, but just before she dared, the tune at the piano stopped—the matriarchs reentered— and dinner was announced. Hands parted, and they stood (she saw he seemed unsteady); and as he went to escort her aunt, she made her way to the piano to follow the Watsons, a great deception of serenity fixed upon her face.

 

* * *

 

The unremarkable nature of the dinner was almost disorienting. Margaret sat beside Mr. Watson, and across from Mrs. Shaw, and was on the whole able to contribute (a little, here and there) to the sea of easy conversations surrounding her. At a point, Fanny took notice:

“You’re unusually quiet this evening, Miss Hale!”

Mrs. Shaw, however, was quick to expound that this quietude was simply Margaret’s nature—that around Harley Street she was ever quiet, but that “when she decides to speak, we are never quite prepared enough!”—and John’s smile was secretive and playful, and Margaret felt able to breathe again.

John and Margaret were not again alone that evening. After dessert, the men followed suit as the women went to the parlor. It was at this time that Mrs. Shaw, having acquiesced to all of Mrs. Thornton’s requests for the wedding thus far, announced that a party must be given on Harley Street before Margaret left forever the divine comforts of her London home.

Mrs. Shaw was also stricken with the remarkable inspiration to invite dear Mrs. Watson to stay with them for as long as she desired—and being infinitely fond of London society, she accepted without hesitation, and with the blessing of her husband.  Then John and Mr. Watson stood at the fireplace and murmured to one another whilst Fanny began to list everything she must do on her trip, and Margaret just wanted to sleep.

A train to London would depart at eleven the next day, a party would be held ten days hence, and Mrs. Shaw could not indulge in the evening any longer. A cab waited just outside the mill yard; while John escorted Mrs. Shaw to it, Mr. Watson offered his elbow to Margaret. Margaret wondered, at first, why Watson ambled so—but when adequate distance between Margaret and her aunt was apparent, Mr. Watson tilted his head and whispered:

"Pardon me, Miss Hale. Thornton and I have business at the Exchange early tomorrow morning, and he mentioned a pretty garden just on the way, just outside the churchyard on the square. He wondered if you might meet him there, just for a moment, at eight o'clock, so that he might see you before you depart."

"Please tell Mr. Thornton I shall wait for him there," was her breathless reply.

At the cab, John took her hand to help Margaret inside, and as he did so, he placed a slight, chaste kiss on her hand, squeezing it almost imperceptibly.  

On the ride back, Mrs. Shaw remarked on his gentlemanliness. Much later on, in the darkness, in the still, Margaret could think only of the man.

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not forget about this. 
> 
> A great big scary Thing happened in my family, and everything stopped and I took care of my sister, because that's what one does. Now Spring is here, and we've finally made it through--goodbye, Thing--and here I am. Much thanks to HerRoyalMajestrix, who recommended a fresh start in the face of writer's block--I scrapped far more than I'm posting here now. Far, far, far, far more. 
> 
> Thank you for your kind comments. I delight in them!  
> *edited for errors. *So* many errors.


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